


Little Things (S&G ficlets)

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: At least that's what I think most of these ficlets will be, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I will change the rating though, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, RPF, also nothing too explicit but still, based on the fifth chapter, but it isn't explicit so I won't change the archive warnings, it has teenage Paul and Artie, music rpf - Freeform, that one is also established relationship, the fourth chapter is based on a prompt, the second chapter is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Short, fluffy moments in the lives of our favourite duo, Paul and Artie.I had a couple of old ficlets floating around on my computer, but these days I also always get ideas for new things that might not be long enough on their own, so then anything of around 1000 words or less goes here.Chapter 1: Paul is sick.Chapter 2: Art is jealous of Paul flirting with the audience.Chapter 3: Art is afraid of flying.Chapter 4: Teenage Paul and Art study for a big math test.Chapter 5: Paul and Art discuss the smell of their armpits.Chapter 6: Roy Halee knows (Roy's POV).
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 22
Kudos: 17





	1. Bed bug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul feels sick. Art takes care of him. 
> 
> A short (duh!) ficlet written for the slashy LJ comm back in the day - some of you may recognise it.
> 
> It's short but it's fluffy, so be warned.
> 
> This could be established relationship, it could also be right before they get together, and it could be purely amicable - you get to decide.

Waking up in the middle of the night feeling cold sweat trickle down his back is not his idea of fun.

They’re supposed to get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow they’re flying to Paris for another concert, but Paul’s feeling miserable and nauseous all of a sudden. Maybe it’s something he ate earlier.

He tries to postpone the inevitable but he can’t get his stomach to settle down and at the end he has to run to the hotel room’s bathroom. He thinks he should feel a little better afterwards, but he doesn’t. He’s shivering and his teeth are clattering when he climbs back under the covers.

“You okay?” Art sounds very sleepy still.

“Not really,” Paul whispers. Before he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back into the pillow, he makes out the shape of Art pulling back the sheets on his bed and climbing out of it in the dark. The next thing he feels is a cool hand on his forehead.

“You don’t have a fever, I think,” Art states. “But you’re sweating.”

“Cold sweat. It’s my stomach,” Paul rasps. His throat hurts and even though he brushed his teeth, the bad taste still remains.

Art goes to the bathroom and comes back with a wet and cool washcloth that he puts on Paul’s forehead. “Here,” he says, “this should feel a little better.”

It does.

“Thanks,” Paul says.

Art sits down on the edge of Paul’s bed.

“No problem.”

They’re silent after that. Paul tries to fall asleep again but he still feels sick and dizzy and he can’t stop shaking. He has to run to the toilet a few more times. But each time he comes back Art’s there to take care of him. After the second bathroom visit Art gets under the covers with him even though the bed is actually too small for the both of them. He throws his arm around Paul’s shoulders, and Paul can’t help but snuggle up to Art to get warm.

Eventually he falls asleep, wrapped around Art’s waist.

They get woken by the alarm clock.

“You okay?” Art mumbles sleepily while he softly runs his finger over Paul’s arm.

Paul’s still not feeling 100% but he’s getting there. He smiles weakly. “Yeah, I am now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 4TH OF JULY to all the Americans out here reading this ☺


	2. I'm just a jealous guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is kind of flirty with the audience. Art is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on Paul and Artie doing [Mrs. Robinson](https://youtu.be/Z5Wvml1hJHs) during Andy Williams' show.
> 
> Another oldie that was written a decade ago. Changed a few words here and there.

There wasn’t even enough time to turn his head and look at Art, when his partner stormed past him, into the dressing room. Art flung himself into the nearest chair and then just sat there, with a look on his face like a bomb had just exploded next to his ear.

“Wow,” Paul remarked, setting his guitar down, “hey, what’s the matter?”

No reply.

“Artie?”

“Nothing, okay? Nothing’s the fucking matter,” Art snapped.

Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise, put his hands onto his hips and went to stand right in front of Art who was deliberately avoiding to look at him.

“Sure, Art. When you say it like that, it’s _really_ convincing.”

“Whatever…” Art said, still not looking Paul in the eye.

So Paul squatted in front of Art and put his hands on Art’s knees.

“Okay, out with it, come on. Something’s clearly bothering you, and I want to know what it is.”

Paul recognised the moment Art finally gave up on the silent treatment approach. He could see it in the way Art’s shoulders fell down and the way he was sagging down in the chair. He kind of looked rather miserable.

“The performance…did you really have to overdo it like that?”

“Overdo it? What did I do? They told us to try and get that in, didn’t they? The interaction with the audience I mean? I just tried to make them laugh, is all.”

Art looked indignantly down at Paul. “Oh, sure, you tried to make them laugh. Well you have a funny way of doing that. You flirted with them, Paul.”

Paul shrugged. “Yeah, well it worked, didn’t it? They loved it. I don’t get why you’re so upset about it. You knew…wait…”

It started to dawn on Paul why this was such a big deal to Art. His _boyfriend_ , Art. _Oh_. He grinned and ran his hands up and down Art’s thighs.

“You…I can’t believe you’re jealous.”

“What? I’m not.”

“You totally are. Of the _audience_ , Art. Seriously? Is that why you were leaning all over me? Because you got possessive?”

Art scowled.

Paul pushed himself up until his head was right in front of Art’s. He curled his hand in Art’s neck and pulled Art forward until their lips touched. Then he kissed Art hotly. He was reluctant to pull back.

“Art?”

At this point Art had his eyes closed and his cheeks flushed. And apparently he was having trouble breathing properly as well.

“Artie?”

“Hmmmm?” Art finally opened his eyes.

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about, okay?”

“Okay.”

Paul smiled. “Yeah? We good?”

“Uh-huh.” Art was still breathless.

“Okay then,” Paul said, clapping Art on the shoulder, “let’s go.”

Art seemed to get out of his trance then.

“Go? Go where?”

“Uhm, Williams’ after-party?”

“Oh no, I forgot. Do we really have to? Can’t we just stay here and…you know?”

Art looked at him with his eyebrows raised. It was usually very hard to resist that look, but tonight Paul would just have to refrain. They had obligations after all.

“No, we’re going to the party. Because I am going to kiss every audience member present there. You know, since I already flirted with them and all.” Paul smirked.

“Ah haha. Very funny,” Art said.

“Come on, we’re going. But you know, afterwards, we can of course…have some fun.”

“Promise?” Art asked while he got out of the chair, put his arm around Paul’s shoulder and pressed a kiss on top of Paul’s head as he lead Paul towards the door.

“Yup, promise.”

“Cool,” Art said, and closed the door behind them.


	3. A hitchhiker's guide to flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art doesn’t really like flying. Paul finds a way of calming him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a talk with a friend (it's you, Sarah! <3) about Art and airplanes and I came up with this.  
> Still super fluffy!

Art doesn’t really like flying. He will avoid it if he can. It’s not that he is getting increasingly paralysed with fear once he boards a plane like Mort is, sometimes, but the thought of not being grounded, of hanging 20.000 feet in the air, does instill some dread into him.

Paul, on the other hand, loves takeoff particularly, he knows. While the anxious flutters in Art’s stomach are mixed with a little trepidation – are we not going to fall down right after lifting from the ground? – Paul is like a little kid on a rollercoaster, looking excitedly out the window to see the houses and the trees and the cars getting smaller and smaller, until they’re no bigger than the tip of a match or ants running to return to the nest.

Art always lets Paul sit in the window seat. If Mort is with them, he’ll take the aisle seat and Art gets a spot in the middle. Art hopes their record will take off so eventually they’ll be able to afford first class tickets. Or a private jet.

On some days, Paul and Mort will fly back on their own while Art hitchhikes back to New York. He loves walking and getting in a stranger’s car, talking to someone he doesn’t know about what their life is like. 

He would love to drive with someone back from California this time, but he has to admit it’s a tad too far and it would take too long. If he didn’t have any obligations in New York with Paul in the recording studio for the next couple of days, he would do it, but there’s just no time now.

Just a little over two thirds through the flight, when they’ve just about crossed the Iowa border from Indiana, there’s a bit of turbulence going on. Mort is asleep next to Art and doesn’t really notice, which is a good thing because Mort is even more scared of turbulence than Art is. Paul is awake, and when Art starts gripping the arm rests, trying to stave off the panicked look in his eyes but kind of failing, Paul leans closer to him. “You okay?” he asks, his tone of voice intended to be soothing. Art isn’t really feeling too calm at the moment. “Uh huh,” he answers, “I’m fine,” but he isn’t entirely honest with himself, or with Paul. He’d rather be anywhere else but on this stupid plane. What if they go down?

Paul squeezes Art’s thigh when he notices the worry in Art’s features. “Try to relax,” Paul tells him. “It’ll be over in a minute.”

The plane makes a dive that’s entirely too deep for Art’s liking; another passenger a few rows behind them also squeaks a little in surprise, and Art, as if by natural reflex, grabs Paul’s hand and clutches it tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, praying that Paul is right and it will be over soon. His heart is going a million miles per hour.

Paul could have scoffed and batted his hand away, but he doesn’t. Instead, Paul takes Art’s hand with both of his and holds it in his lap, and Art feels like he could cry from gratitude.

“Breathe,” he hears Paul whisper in his left ear, and, eyes still closed, he tries to take that advice. He breathes in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, concentrating on the feel of Paul’s warm hands enveloping his. Paul starts drawing figures on the skin of Art’s palm, and because Paul’s fingers are calloused from his guitar playing, it feels entirely like pleasant scratching. The gentle sensation and his breathing exercises are what’s keeping Art grounded right now.

By the time Art opens his eyes, twenty minutes have passed, and for the last fifteen of them the turbulence has probably stopped. Still, Paul hasn’t let go of his hand, and when Art looks at Paul, he finds his friend staring through the window, lost in thoughts, all the while still rubbing his thumb over Art’s hand absent-mindedly. Art doesn’t have the heart to pull his hand out of Paul’s grip. He finds he kind of doesn’t want to, either.

Paul only notices what he’s doing when a flight attendant announces over the speakers that they’ve set in the landing course to JFK. He shifts in his seat, clears his throat and releases Art’s hand abruptly. “Sorry,” Paul says, smiling a little shyly. “I forgot about it for a minute.” Mort is stirring next to Art, oblivious to the fact that the both of them have been sitting here next to him holding hands. Art feels strangely disappointed about the loss of contact with Paul. “No worries,” he manages. “Thanks for calming me down.”

“Anytime,” Paul smiles.

A week later, they have to fly out again to another performance on the West coast. This time, Art has the time to hitchhike back if he’d want to, but oddly enough he doesn’t. In fact, he finds himself kind of hoping for another excuse to sit next to Paul and hold his hand. And he could be mistaken, but when he announces to Paul and Mort that he’ll be joining them on the flight, he thinks he notices Paul’s eyes twinkling a bit more than usual.

There is no turbulence this time. The flight is as smooth as can be. But when Paul sneaks his hand closer to Art’s on the armrest, and they end up sitting with their pinkies entwined, Art’s heart does the soaring and swooping for him.


	4. The Awaited Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this prompt](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/post/628532914749145088/art-helps-paul-study-for-a-big-math-test-they). 
> 
> Art tutors Paul in math in preparation for a big test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is based on a line in [one of Art's poems in Still Water](https://www.artgarfunkel.com/stillwater/poem48.html). He and Penny were visiting Lorne and his wife when Paul came by...the awaited accident.

“I’ll never understand this,” Paul whined, before he let his forehead hit the desk with a dull sound. “It’s just no use. Don’t bother, Artie. I’m just too stupid for this.”

“Come on, concentrate,” Art egged him on. They were seated next to each other at Art’s desk, going over math because they had a big test the next day. Art looked at the back of Paul’s head and had this strange urge to run his fingers through Paul’s hair in a soothing motion, as if he was a mother comforting their crying child. He shook the thought away from him and tapped his finger to the page in the textbook. “It’s really not that difficult. Now if you take f(x)= x4-2x²+1, all you have to do is—”

“Artie, I just do not get it. I hate math,” Paul huffed, raising his head up from the desk and pushing himself up to a standing position to cross the room in three strides and throw himself face down on Art’s bed, groaning in frustration.

Art sighed. “Paul, come on, at least _try_ ,” he said, casting his eyes toward the ceiling in fondness cloaked in fake annoyance. Art grabbed the textbook and sat down on his bed too, next to Paul, who climbed upright and plopped himself down again next to Art after all, bleary eyes and hair a little tousled, pulling the book from Art’s hands. They went over the equations again. Art tried to explain as patiently and as simply as possible.

It took a few more hours. By the time Art thought Paul had maybe understood the equation rules a little bit, Art's mom had to call Paul's mom to announce their son was staying the night, studying together with Art, and Paul's eyes had been drooping until he had finally fallen asleep with his head on Art's shoulder, Paul's breath softly whooshing past the shell of Art's ear. Art had trouble keeping his eyes open as well, and eventually they'd just crawled under the covers together, not even bothering getting undressed, to catch an hour or two of sleep at least, before they would have to get ready for school and for the test. When Art woke up the next morning, Paul's warm body next to him in bed, Art felt a bit weird, as if his skin had become too small for his body. It was probably due to lack of sleep. 

* 

Two days later they'd gotten the test results back just before school was out, and Paul was uncharacteristically quiet next to him walking back to his house. Art feared the worst. And he was also rather miffed about his own tutoring skills, and wondered whether Paul would partially blame him for failing the test. 

Only when they were safely inside Paul's room did Art dare to inquire after the dreaded test results. "So how did you do?" he asked, quietly, not wanting to invite Paul's wrath upon him immediately. Paul said nothing, shoved his hand in his bag and took out the papers, which he thrust into Art’s hand with a look of 'here, see for yourself'. And Art, so convinced he was going to see a D or an F on the front page, had to take a moment to compute that what was written on the test was a large A+ instead, circled in red, and a note from the teacher who scribbled 'well done, Paul, congratulations' under it. 

"Oh my god?" Art said, not sure if he was asking a question or making a surprised statement, but when he looked at Paul, his friend was nodding frantically, his face split in the biggest grin Art had ever seen. “You got an A+!” Art yelled, grabbing Paul by the shoulders and shaking him. Paul started to jump up and down and threw his arms around Art. 

“Artie, thank you so much,” Paul said in the folds of Art’s neck. “You’re welcome,” Art said into Paul’s hair in return, tightening his grip on his best friend. Then Paul pulled back and beamed up at him, and before Art could even begin to comprehend what was happening, the both of them were surging forward at the same time, and then Paul’s mouth was on his, a gentle press of lips against lips.

Art didn’t have enough time to start thinking about what was going on, because as fast as Paul had flown into his arms, Paul was suddenly across the room, staring at Art in obvious confusion. Art tried not to think about how he already missed the feel of Paul’s body pressed against his.

“Sorry about that,” Paul said, a bit awkwardly. “I guess I got a bit carried away in all the excitement about my math grade.”

“Uh yeah, no worries,” Art answered. Except Art didn’t think he felt at all sorry about what happened, which was rather worrying after all.

+

They didn't talk about it. Art felt restless and relieved at the same time, and during the following weeks Paul acted as if nothing had happened, and continued chattering to him about everything else under the sun but that moment they had shared. The only noticeable difference was that Paul didn't sit as close to Art anymore when they were singing together. And he didn't ask Art to tutor him in math for their next test two weeks later. Art was jittery, feeling annoyed and frustrated. He wasn't sure if he was more disappointed about Paul not willing to learn more math and continue his streak in good grades or about the fact that now that Paul established this physical distance between them, there was no chance at all of having Paul sleep in his bed again. Definitely not the latter. Art didn’t think about Paul that way, did he? Except he couldn't tear his gaze away from Paul’s mouth as it was telling him that Paul had gotten a B+ for his latest math test.

"I think I'm getting the hang of it now, Artie. I may even become a math genius!" Paul beamed. 

Art was less enthusiastic, if not downright sad about Paul not needing him anymore for tutoring sessions.

"Oh, that's nice. Great," he managed.

Paul was not convinced of Art’s honesty in the matter.

"I thought you'd be happy for me?" he questioned.

"I am," Art defended himself. "It's just that...I liked our previous tutoring session. And the result," Art said, as pointedly as he dared.

"I'm quite happy with a B+ as well—” Paul began.

"Not that result."

Paul stared at him and Art wanted to disappear, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Except Paul boldly took a few steps forward until he was right in front of Art. "You mean this result?" Paul said, his eyes flicking to Art's mouth and back up to meet Art's gaze.

Art barely had time to nod bashfully before the awaited accident repeated itself and Paul's lips were once more pressed to his.

It lasted only a few seconds but Art knew that this felt inexplicably good, and that he wanted more.

Paul looked up at him. “You know, if we’re going to do this every time you’re lecturing me in math, I’m going to end up with an F on every test,” he grinned.

Art, thinking that this was Paul’s way of telling him that they couldn’t possibly do this, let his face fall. “Paul, I—”

“Oh, what the hell, who needs an A in math anyway?” Paul said. Art would have started to protest, but with the way Paul kind of melted against him and claimed his mouth again, all thoughts of mathematics were forgotten. 


	5. Fragrant Fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Art have a little talk about perspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday I had a discussion with some international friends about our habits of shaving body hair after I'd had a long-overdue haircut (it had been 15 months since my last haircut, due to the lockdown and - I admit - pure laziness) and it led to this little fic, lmao. 
> 
> Since there's a bit of talk of genitals, I'm going to have to change the rating of the bunch accordingly.

“Did you know,” Paul asked, while he shifted slightly on the bed, “that people can be attracted to the sweat of their sexual partners?” 

Art’s eyebrows shot up.

“I mean, the actual smell of the sweat. Like, how crazy is that?” Paul continued, looking up at Art’s face in profile from his spot where the other man’s chest and shoulder met. Art’s arm was slung around Paul’s shoulders, supporting Paul’s head. 

“Where did you learn that?” Art asked, his curiosity peaked. 

“Dunno,” Paul shrugged. “I read it somewhere.” 

“What kind of magazines are you reading?” Art asked sternly, but his smile betrayed his amusement. 

Paul wiggled his eyebrows. 

“Wait a minute,” Art asked, while a thought seemed to cross his mind, “are you saying you’re attracted to my sweat?” Art’s eyes widened while at the same time a frown appeared between his eyebrows, giving him an almost cross-eyed look. 

“Oh, we’re sexual partners?” Paul deadpanned. “I didn’t know,” he said, nevertheless giving Art’s naked body beside him an appreciative once-over. 

Art rolled his eyes. 

Paul giggled. “So what if I was?” he said, and to prove his point, he turned his head and buried his nose in the hair growing in Art’s armpit, taking a big sniff. 

Art squirmed a little, trying to pull away but not wanting to hurt Paul in the process. “Paul, what are you doing?” Art laughed, while he struggled to get away from the tickle of Paul’s warm breath under his arm. “I almost feel like a dog with you sniffing me like that.”

Paul laughed some more. Then again, there were other things all dog-like that he and Art could be doing, and Paul’s dick twitched in anticipative interest.

“I can’t be smelling too good right now,” Art said, taking a whiff of his other armpit. Art had washed that morning, but they’d just been involved in a rather intense lovemaking session, so Art imagined his sweat glands had been quite busy keeping up with the pace. 

“Aaah, I don’t know,” Paul interjected, pulling his head back from under Art’s arm and nuzzling the side of Art’s face instead, “you smell a bit sweaty indeed, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. In fact, not repulsive at all,” he finished, wiggling his eyebrows a second time. “I guess it’s true, then.” 

“You’re weird,” Art stated. 

“And you stink,” came the immediate reply from Paul, a lopsided grin appearing on his face. “But I love you anyway.” 

“So romantic,” Art mused. But he turned his head and kissed the hair near Paul’s temple nonetheless.

“Do you know which other smell I like?” Paul asked mischievously.

Art waited patiently for Paul to continue.

“This,” Paul said, and he raised his upper body, moving away from Art’s head only to lower himself face down in Art’s groin, plunging his nose into Art’s pubic hair. He inhaled deeply and then pulled back and pursed his lips to give a reverent little kiss to the head of Art’s still flaccid dick. “Lovely scent down here.”

“Yup,” Art said, nodding his head and shaking with laughter, causing Paul’s head to bob between Art’s legs in unison with the motions of his laughing belly. “Definitely weird.”

“Weird enough to not want to go for a second round?” Paul asked, poking Art’s cock with his finger. “And get even more sweaty?” Paul wiggled his eyebrows for a third time, and Art felt his dick already swelling a bit with the prospect of another orgasm. “Or do you need more time to recover first?” Paul asked jokingly, even though he was now full on stroking Art’s cock and feeling it grow in his hand. 

“Oh, don’t sweat it, Paul. I’ll be _gland_ to help you with your not-so- _secrete_ fantasies about my body odor,” Art said, a smug look on his face for the puns. 

“God, you’re terrible,” Paul smiled fondly.

“We’ll see about that,” Art said. 

Afterwards, Paul would have to admit that Art _definitely_ had his ways of making Paul sweat in return.


	6. You don't need to be coy, Roy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Halee knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Roy Halee's POV.

When he hit the light switch, Roy noticed someone with a curly head of hair and a smaller, dark-haired person spring apart out of the corners of his eye, as if he’d just caught them spraying the studio wall with graffiti. He had arrived a little early in the studio and hadn’t expected anyone to be there, as the next recording session wasn’t supposed to be happening in another half hour. And the scheduled recording artists had never made it in time before, let alone early. So no one was to blame him when he frowned a little first, then raised one eyebrow, perplexed. He looked at his watch, just to make sure that it hadn’t stopped and it was _him_ who was late. He wasn’t. 

“Paul….Art,” he nodded at the two of them. Art started fiddling with one of the microphones, and Paul had walked a few steps to grab his guitar case, opening it carefully and grabbing his guitar, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

“Hey, Roy,” Paul said, offering a weak smile when he had returned to where he’d been standing moments earlier. “You’re early.”

“What’s going on?” Roy asked, suspicious. “Why are you already here?” 

Art cleared his throat, carrying one of the microphones closer to where Paul was setting up a stool. “We uh...we were rehearsing.” Paul nodded avidly, and the two of them looked at Roy with a sheepish look on their faces. 

“Rehearsing?” Roy asked, incredulously. “In the dark?”

Roy noticed the way Art’s cheeks tinged a specific shade of pink that even the roses in his front yard didn’t have. Paul quickly cut in. “Hello darkness, my old friend?” he joked, then added: “Just some harmony thing we needed to work on. But I think we got it down now, right, Artie?” 

Paul looked at Art, who all but stammered in agreement.

“Ooookay,” Roy said, shaking his head a little, amused at the awkwardness of the duo. “Well then, since you’re here already, let’s just get started, perhaps we can all go home a little earlier today.”

Their harmonies did sound particularly close, and Roy had no idea why, but they didn’t need as many takes as they usually would. It was, by his own admission, a pretty good recording session, and, still quite unexpectedly, they managed to finish it ahead of time. 

Pretty stoked about the idea of getting home a little earlier than usual and surprising his wife, maybe with a bouquet of flowers he’d get at the flower shop on the corner of the street, Roy figured he could send Paul and Art on their way as well. 

“See you on the 16th, boys,” he said, looking at the book near the exit in which their next session was already planned and noted down. 

“I’m dying for a cigarette,” Paul said. “You coming, Artie?” he asked, grabbing his guitar case and looking behind him to see if Art was following. 

Roy couldn’t resist. “Yeah, I’ll bet,” he murmured, clearing his throat after.

“What?” Paul asked, thinking he was being addressed.

“Listen, you two, before you go,” Roy began, “you better make sure you leave no evidence behind.”

“Evidence?” Art piped up, a squeaky quality in his voice, as if he was already expecting the next sentence to leave Roy’s mouth.

Roy motioned with his chin at the both of them, lowering his eyes. “Both of your flies are open. Have been the whole time.” Roy grinned a little, even though he figured he should have told them at the beginning of the session. 

Roy had never seen two sets of hands fumbling with their flies as fast as he did then. The color in Art’s face faded completely, leaving him looking as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging. Now it was Paul’s turn to redden, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound, probably looking for the best excuse that wouldn’t lead to the conclusion all three of them were thinking about. Paul and Art didn’t dare look at each other.

Art looked like he was about to faint, and Paul eventually croaked out: “You knew?”

Roy had known for a while. He wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way they looked at each other during recording sessions, how they communicated wordlessly, with language only the two of them knew how to use. Sometimes he’d even been privy to a few touches between them, even if they did it inconspicuously. A hand on the knee, or a squeeze of the shoulder. A lingering touch, their fingers brushing when they shared a cigarette. Once Roy suspected, and once he knew when and how to look for signs, it all became quite obvious. He had even wondered if he hadn’t been partly responsible for this turn of events, always putting them together closely to sing into one microphone.

“Knew what?” he said, winking at them. “I don’t know anything. Tell me, is there anything I should know?” 

Art immediately figured out that Roy was offering them a way out, and he wasted no time in taking it. “Paul, let’s go,” he urged, but Paul was still trying to wrap his mind around everything. 

“But--”, Paul said. 

“Listen to Art,” Roy advised him, sighing. “Just...be careful, okay? Not everyone will turn a blind eye like this. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Finally, Paul started walking toward the door, Art trailing right behind him. Roy smiled at the both of them, in hopes of getting across that he wasn’t angry with or repulsed by the state of affairs, or by them. 

It was hard to forget the grateful look Art and Paul both shot him as they exited the studio. 

Roy’s wife was happy with the flowers he bought her that evening. But all Roy could think about was how he _could_ buy flowers for the person he loved, without anyone questioning his motives. He just hoped one day it could be the same for everyone. 


End file.
